


A Little Glass Vial

by WillowPerpetua



Series: A Little Glass Vial [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dystopia, Friends to Lovers, Government Conspiracy, M/M, Organ Reposession, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowPerpetua/pseuds/WillowPerpetua
Summary: To survive crushing poverty and save his best friend from an early grave, Bucky Barnes took a job that earns him the money he needs to buy Steve Rogers's much needed Zydrate. What Bucky did not expect was how much of himself he would have to give away to the job.Meanwhile, bored and tired of being housebound by his illnesses, Steve finds that there is a world outside his apartment and that he just may be the key to saving it.





	1. Thankless Job

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I am playing in the bloody, fantastic sandbox that is the Repo! The Genetic Opera universe for this fic and I can think of nothing more fun. I don't expect the Repo! Characters to show up as more than a mention here. This is about the Marvel characters, particularly the Captain America folks. Thanks for joining me for this new adventure. You are wonderful.

“Somebody’s got to do it,” Alexander said, from behind a newspaper. Inside his boss’s limousine, all Bucky could see of Alexander was one shiny shoe, emerging from a pair of perfectly tailored slacks. Upon the hand that held the paper, on his index finger was a ring, blood red and embossed with the symbol that had the whole city in its tentacles. After a dreadful silence that stretched into eternity, Alexander shook the paper and lowered it, revealing a hat pulled low over the visage that he showed to nobody but the select employees he deemed trustworthy. “Will it be you, Barnes?”

Bucky thought back to that moment on busy nights like these, when he was hard at work, and thought about what would have happened if he had said no. The thought was too gruesome to linger on. Instead he set himself to the task at hand and let his mind drift to dinner plans.

* * *

 

Steve awoke with the feeling of emerging from underwater. He had forgotten to take his medicine and he felt like hell. He hit the reminder alarm beeping next to his bed to silence it and sat up into the cold sunlight streaming through the gaps in his curtains. Stories below, the sounds of traffic starting the journey out of the city toward home drifted upward, catching neighbors yelling, dogs barking, screens blaring out their messages, until it all blended into the sound that reached Steve in his room. Without checking, he could have said it was about five o’clock. That meant Bucky would be home any minute.

Sure enough, Steve heard the rattle of the key in the front door and the sound of Bucky’s boots. He could have picked that sound out of all the sounds of the city combined. Unlike most days, it didn’t sooth him. Steve found himself feeling irritated and wished that he could have more time alone. He was not up to the task of putting on a false smile and reassuring Bucky that he was alright today. The pain was worse than usual. He was not alright.

“Steve?” Bucky called, as if Steve would be anywhere else.

“Hey Buck,” Steve called back.

“Hey pal. You doing okay?” Bucky stood in the doorway, framed by the cracking paint. His hair was mussed, the way it always was after a long day, and his brow was set heavy over his eyes in Steve’s least favorite look of concern.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired is all,” Steve said.

“You remember to take your medicine?”

“Just woke up,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

Bucky sat down on the bed next to Steve and fixed the drink for him. This was an old routine. After so many close calls, so many bad days, all the times when Bucky had to pour it down Steve’s throat for him to keep him alive, they had a system.

“I can do it myself,” Steve argued, although he was feeling tired.

“I know you can, buddy,” Bucky said. Steve’s tone stung, but he wasn’t going to fight him if he could help it. Fighting Steve was a losing battle every time.

“You’re damn right I can. Just maybe I don’t want to.” The words erupted from Steve with more clarity than he had ever felt. He had no idea what they even meant. He had never considered not taking his medicine before.

Bucky sat in shock for a moment before the weight of Steve’s statement washed over him. Now, this was something he would fight Steve over.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky’s voice was colder thank Steve had ever heard it before. “Don’t ask me to watch you suffer.”

“As long as you don’t have to see it, then?”

Their eyes met for a long moment, held in the electric charge of the truth, and then Bucky’s phone beeped, slicing through the tension between them. Steve felt his resolve shatter. He picked up the drink and swallowed it in one long gulp like surrender. They would talk later.

“You worked all day. You could just tell him no,” Steve said, following Bucky out to the living room where he was already gathering the things he set down just a moment before. Bucky checked his phone.

“No,” He looked back up at Steve with something close to a smile on his face. “No, I really, really can’t. This shouldn’t take too long.”

* * *

 

Along the outskirts of town, where the nice part of town gave way to the abandoned, creaking houses where the smell of rot hung low in the air like a friend, were some of the best alleys. The Graverobber stepped between broken bricks and shards of glass, keeping his eyes peeled for the things he needed. He was good at his job, picking up the pieces and sorting through rubble. It was not glamorous, but he was better in the shadows.

“Good evening, Graverobber.”

He didn’t look up behind him, but allowed the owner of the voice to match his pace while he continued his walk. The Graverobber smiled, as if the interruption to his evening was something he anticipated with delight, rather the feeling of ice down his back when somebody got the drop on him. This woman, whoever she was, had done just that. He hadn’t heard her coming at all. They turned a corner together, toward open terrain, a street that was better lit and better known to him.

“What can I do for you?” He asked, no less than the paragon of politeness. She was a lot like the alley rats he knew from this part of town, thin enough to be hooked on the stuff, pale enough to not have seen the sun in months, but her red hair shone like she was still eating. She smelled good and clean. She had a look in her eye--hunger, yes--but for something that Sam had not seen in some time.

“The same thing you do for everybody else,” The woman said, pressing close to Sam and backing him up to the brick wall of the warehouse behind him. “I want you to get some of it for me,” She whispered into his ear, and there was nobody else around, so Sam was left to believe that it was a move meant just for effect.

He could play her game. “What does a girl like you want Zydrate for?” He asked reaching around and pulling her closer to him. He wound a hand into her shiny, red hair not to hurt, but just to feel it. How long had it been since he felt something so soft? “You have good kidneys, a good liver. That’s…” he listened “Is that an original heart?”

She took his hand and guided it from the back of her head around to the front of her neck, down her chest, across the flat of her belly to settle on her lower abdomen. “Ripped out.”

“Repo?” He asked.

She did not have to answer. He had seen the same expression on the faces of the destitute and destroyed women and men in the warehouse behind him. Those who survived a repossession never looked exactly as they had before. They carried the scars inside and out.

“I can get it for you by tomorrow. Same time. Here,” He offered. She took a step back and nodded, letting the panic drain from her face. The Graverobber went back to work.

* * *

 

“If you want a place in this program, I cannot impress upon you strongly enough the nature of this research.” Mr. Stark paced the length of his desk and twirled a pen in his hands.

“Secret?” Bruce asked, looking from the man in front of him, to the extravagant office, to the armed guards who had plucked him from his own much smaller and shabbier office, and then back to Tony Stark.

“What gave it away?” Mr. Stark asked, finally stopping to rest his hands on the desk and look over the man across from him.

“An interview after nine p.m. with the head of a company who sent his own henchmen to fetch me after one phone call.” Bruce said. “That sounds like a secret to me.”

“I like you.” Mr. Stark said, taking a seat at last. “We like him.” He said to a woman who entered the room as they were speaking. She nodded but did not interrupt their conversation. “Tell me, Dr. Banner, why do you think a radiation specialist needs a place on this team?”

“My first clue?” Bruce said, with no hint of humor, “It glows.”

* * *

 

The fog settled around Steve the way it always did. He was used to it, he had been his whole life, but it was an annoyance in a way. He could hardly do any of the things he wished he could when he was stuck inside all day being contagious and then, when he got his medicine into his system and it had a chance to go to work doing all the things it was supposed to, he felt too exhausted to do anything but move his chair to the window and sketch the same familiar lines of the city over and over.

By the time he woke up, it was pitch black throughout the house. He must have slept through Bucky’s homecoming. Odd, Steve thought, Buck was usually too loud to sleep through, especially on these late nights. Perhaps after their argument, Bucky had tried to make amends by letting him sleep.

Steve got up from his chair little by little, trying to keep the floorboards quiet. He passed by Bucky’s room on the way to his own and glanced inside. The bed was still made and there was no evidence that he had touched it since this morning.

“Buck?” Steve called into the still silence of the apartment. “You home?”

Nothing.

Steve retraced his steps back into the living room to check the couch. Perhaps Bucky had crashed there, as he was want to do after long days at work or the occasional night out. But no, the couch was as empty as his bed. A sharp feeling of panic began creeping up Steve’s spine, clawing at his insides. Bucky was not home. He was supposed to be home. Steve was supposed to wake up in the morning and find Bucky flipping flapjacks and telling him a story about some ridiculous thing that happened at the hospital. He was not supposed to be missing in the dead of night.

With a wild and fierce determination that Steve was not sure he really felt, he shoved his feet into the shoes he hardly ever wore and pulled at the laces that felt stiff under his fingers. Inside Bucky’s room, he found his spare coat. It smelled like him. It smelled like safety and cigarettes and metal. It was too big for Steve, but it was better that way. It made him look bigger than he was, and that couldn’t hurt where he was going.

When he got to the door, he turned back. He wasn’t afraid. He was not saying goodbye, either. He was just stepping through a door, and for Steve, that was a big step.

* * *

 

“So, you’re telling me that you won’t consider my resignation?” Bucky said in a hollow voice, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Then again, he thought to himself, this is hell. There’s nowhere for me to go.

“That’s exactly what I am telling you, Barnes,” Alexander said. “You are an asset that this company cannot allow to leave. What can we offer you?”

“Nothing.” Bucky said. “I want out.”

“Come now. You must have someone in need. Something we can fix. This job has perks and you have not taken advantage—“

“No.” Bucky said.

“Alright. Let me put this a different way. GeneCo owns this city. Eventually, you or somebody you know is going to fail, and when I say fail, I mean liver failure, heart failure, kidney failure, the list goes on and on and on my young, able-bodied friend. So, when that happens, you will get a GeneCo product. And when that happens, you will be immune from the work that you and others like you do.” Alexander smiled like it was Christmas and he had just received the biggest box under the tree.

“Or,” he went on, and his smile grew colder, “You can continue your work for us under a different kind of contract, and we will remove your benefits package, ensuring that you and your loved ones will not be free from the risk of repossession,” at this, he fixed Bucky with a sympathetic look and continued, “it is entirely possible that you may be the Repo Man required to carry out those very repossessions. Are we clear?”

Bucky felt the words like ice in his veins. He was right. This was hell.

“Yes, sir,” he said, because what else could he say?

“Very good. Then there is no need to renegotiate your contract, is there?” Alexander said as if he had not just threatened the lives of everyone Bucky loved.

“No sir. Thank you, sir.”

Bucky walked at a calm and reasonable pace as he exited his boss’s office. The moment he reached home, however, he sprinted up the stairs like the devil was after him. When he got to the door, he hardly noticed that it was unlocked. He threw his bag down without a thought to his volume and the risk of waking Steve. He didn’t care. He was home and that was all that mattered. He was away from Alexander and the job and all of it for as long as it took for somebody to default.

“Steve!” he called. He didn’t care if he was sleeping. He needed to be sure he was safe. “Steve?” Bucky called again. The house was empty.


	2. Things You See in a Graveyard

The Graverobber ducked behind one of the old, hulking headstones while the sirens blared past and cast blue and red light across the dried leaves and decay scattered across the earth. They drove by without slowing down, leaving Sam to catch his breath. Graverobbing was below the notice of police on all but the slowest of days, but there was no reason not to be careful.

Sam pried a coffin open and considered what he found in it. There wasn’t a whole lot of difference between him and the sucker inside the box, if he let himself think about it. He did not. It was best never to let himself think too hard when at work.

He put the Zydrate gun up to the nose of the unwitting donor, set on the reverse function, and let it collect what it could. This corpse was a faucet of the stuff. He filled half a vial before the donor ran dry. The family plots from the bougie, monied names was always good for a few heads full of Zydrate if he got there before they had been picked over by other Graverobbers. Some nights were better than others.

Sam found a good handful of heads full of the stuff before he heard shuffling from inside the bushes. Without sudden movements or cause for alarm, he peered into the shadows. The kid was fresh-faced and as bad at hiding as he was at being quiet. At this rate, if anybody came around to bust Sam for Graverobbing, this bystander was going to get both of them caught.

“Okay, come out.” Sam said. “You caught me red handed.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Steve said, and there was no hint of unfriendliness in his tone. He stated the fact simply and fairly. His eyes caught on the stone behind the Graverobber, the large one that he used to shield himself from the cops just a moment before. “Oh. Here it is.” the kid said to himself. He reached a hand out and ran his fingers across the letters embossed across it. BARNES. A series of first names and dates followed below.

“Family?” Sam asked, as if he knew what that word really meant.

“No,” Steve said. “I mean, not mine.” He turned back to look at the man, striking with his dark skin, bold features, and long dreadlocks. Steve wanted there to be somebody he could trust out here. Although everything he had ever been told screamed at him not to trust this man, there was a kernel of honesty that glowed from the core of him. “I’m looking for somebody,” Steve said.

“Of course you are.” Sam said with a heavier smile. He let his weight settle on the leg closer to the boy—this stranger may have reached adulthood, but he had all the innocence of youth around him like a halo. “What kind of somebody are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find her?”

“Him.”

“Excellent. I know a few of those.” Sam said.

“My friend,” Steve said, to keep him from heading down the wrong path. “His name is Barnes. Goes by Bucky. He’s missing.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right Graverobber.” Sam said, heading out of this section of the graveyard with Steve trailing behind him. “I’m good at finding things, and besides, I see a lot of who goes missing in this city.” Steve looked like he was going to be sick, but followed along at Sam’s clipped pace. “What should I call you, when I call you?”

“Steve,” he answered, simply.

There was something about this boy that Sam found refreshing. He did not meet flirtation with flirtation, but he did not back down from the conversation. “So, tell me, what does your fella look like?” Sam asked.

“He’s handsome,” Steve blurted the words out before he thought about them. It was true, Bucky was the kind of guy who could have a prosthetic face based off of his own in the blink of an eye. He thought harder about Bucky, about the parts that made him. “He’s got all his original parts, nothing replaced. No surgeries except a tonsillectomy when he was a kid.”

Sam nodded and Steve continued, considering his friend and how best to describe him—what he really was made of. “He’s got good skin, fair, and shiny hair, dark, so I guess things are working well on the inside. There is something tired about his eyes. Blue, his eyes are blue. It makes him look nicer, in a way, how he comes home looking tired. He works too hard. Got a cleft in his chin that works wonders on the ladies. Between that and the muscles he’s got (though I don’t know when he finds time to work out. Well, anyway) he never has trouble turning heads,” Steve said. He never realized he had so much to say about Bucky’s looks.

Sam took the information in like the sponge that he was. He could recall the details of a person down to the length of their fingernails if they were of interest to him. He was not sure why just yet, but this small, desperate, misplaced puzzle piece of a boy and his missing beaux were of interest. He nodded, locking the description inside his mind to match up to every good looking, brown haired, blue eyed, white boy he saw over the next few days. Sure, he thought. That would narrow things down.  

* * *

 

“Pepper, will you be a doll and go over the papers with Dr. Banner before he leaves?” Mr. Stark asked the woman who arrived during Bruce’s interviews. She rolled her eyes and stepped toward the desk.

“No, Tony. I will be your assistant and do my job, which includes going over Dr. Banner’s papers with him.” Pepper pulled a stack of papers toward her and started ticking off boxes and underlining sections that made no sense at all to either of the men. She cut through it like butter.

“Well, I was going to pay you,” Mr. Stark said, while he and Bruce watched Pepper zip through the legalese.

“Damn right, you are. This is under the radar, not volunteer,” she said. Her tone and expression, coupled with the way she held her pen like a threat, made Bruce certain that between Mr. Stark and his assistant, he was sure he would rather not cross Pepper.

“Well, Dr. Banner, welcome aboard. Looking forward to working with you,” Mr. Stark said to him, offering him a hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. It is an honor,” Bruce answered, shaking his new boss’s hand with gentle enthusiasm.

“Please,” he said, with a wince, “let’s agree to do away with the formalities. I can’t bear to hear the name ‘Mr. Stark’ without having a glass of something distilled in my hand. Childhood trauma. I’m sure you understand. You don’t get an IQ like yours without it.”

Bruce did not respond. He and Tony, as he would have to start thinking of one of the best known faces of the age, had not yet reached that level of familiarity.

“So,” he turned back to Pepper, who was waiting with the papers he was expected to sign, “This is a non-compete contract with GeneCo. If you sign this, you are agreeing not to work with them, nor will you provide any of the research or material you generate while working with us to GeneCo or any of their affiliates. There is a lot more to it, you can read it if you like, but that’s the gist. No GeneCo. How does that work for you?”

“That’s like saying no hospitals, doctors, or bandages.” Bruce said, with a wary look at Pepper.

“We understand that it is a big ask. We aren’t banning you from using any GeneCo products. We simply demand that you not share your work with them,” she hesitated for a moment, but plunged ahead to the place where all their minds had already dived, “even if they ask you about your work, you must remain silent, even if they ask insistently.”

“I am not afraid of GeneCo,” Bruce said.

“How do you feel about them?” Pepper asked.

“Angry,” Bruce said. That was all he would say about it. They had taken everything he once had. If this was his chance to get some small piece of it back, or take something away from GeneCo, then he would do whatever he could to make them feel the way that he felt.

* * *

 

The world was bigger than Steve remembered. Streets that made sense when viewed as maps and from his windows were a maze of lights and smells and other people. They went on for so much longer than he recalled. There had been a time, he was sure, when a walk like this would not have felt daunting and disorientating. Then again, that time would probably been in daylight and not alone. He put one foot in front of the other and kept moving in the direction he thought was correct.

There was that tight, constricted feeling in his chest. The light, detached feeling in his head, like he was  about to float away from himself. Everything seemed both louder and softer at the same time. The colors and lights around him started to blend. One foot. Steve thought. Next foot. Home. Need to get—

“Steve?” He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder and turned to see a familiar face. An older man, comely and well-groomed, wearing a look of kind concern. “Oh, good, it is you. Steve Rogers, it’s Mr. Pierce.”

Steve blinked, clearing the clouds from his vision. “Right, of course Mr. Pierce, excuse me. How are you?”

“Better than you, it seems. Please, let me give you a lift home. My car is right over here.”

“I couldn’t—“

“No, really. I insist. It’s the least I can do for a friend of Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky’s name brought clarity to Steve’s mind. Perhaps Mr. Pierce knew something about Bucky. Steve accepted without backward glance and took a seat in the exquisite, shining car that was so out of place in this side of town.

“You live with Mr. Barnes, yes?” Mr. Pierce asked, with a nod to the driver before he rolled up the partition. They began moving toward home and it was the smoothest ride Steve could recall. He had never been in a limo before. He had never been near anyone who wore such extravagance like it was a Tuesday and not their own wedding day. He carried himself with the assurance that only immeasurable wealth could purchase. It made Steve’s head swim.

“Bucky never talks about work.”

This made Mr. Pierce laugh with his head thrown back and his mouth wide open. Steve had not meant to make a joke, indeed, he did not know what he said was funny. He was trying to breach the subject of Bucky’s mysterious life beyond the apartment, and here was his boss, laughing about it. It felt like a barrier, and Steve was helpless to scale it.

“Oh, Steve. May I call you Steve? I feel as if we are friends. Mr Barnes speaks of you with such fondness,” said Mr. Pierce, once his laughter subsided. This was as much a shock to Steve as meeting Mr. Pierce in the first place. Knowing that the man remembered him was one thing, but that he was a topic of conversation? Now, that was something new. When on earth did Bucky speak to his boss about him?

“Well, yes, Mr. Pierce.”

“Alexander, please,” said Mr. Pierce, “I cannot abide formality.”

“Oh. Well, then. Yes, Alexander. I suppose,” Steve said. “What exactly is it that you do?”

“Management,” Alexander said. It would have been a simple enough answer, with his frank tone and the way he shrugged, but the elegance of the vehicle around them suggested that he was hiding something. “I manage a lot of things,” he said in response to Steve’s skeptical look. “Speaking of which, what were you doing out and about, so far from home at such a late hour? That’s not a good neighborhood to get yourself turned around in.”

“I was looking for Bucky.” Steve chose not to ask what Alexander was doing in a bad part of town so late at night, himself. It wasn’t his business.

“Ah yes, the old Barnes estate is out that way. Such a shame. That family name used to really mean something. Ah well—This is you, isn’t it?” They had arrived at the apartment building.

As simply as that, Steve’s search came to an end. Bucky was pacing in front of the stairs, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes caught on the car like a drowning man might catch upon a life preserver. He approached with a desperation in his steps that made Steve’s heart beat in his chest like something caged and frantic.

Pierce rolled his window down so that he could speak to Bucky. “Now, when I was a child, we were still allowed to go outside to play as boys, we weren’t so sequestered as you were when you were growing up. Then again, we weren’t so afraid that any breath would be our last, but there you have it, life is unfair. Anyway, at least once a week, some shitty kid would get his comeuppance for being a cruel little miscreant. He would fall or get pushed over or skin his knee, and you know what would happen? His mother would come rushing down the steps of her building to make sure he was alright. Then, if he was just fine, she would give him a good slap ‘round the head for frightening her.” Alexander paused to glance between Bucky and Steve. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky said. “Thank you for going to the trouble of bringing Steve home.”

“Anything for one of my best,” said Alexander, offering a hand to Steve. Steve took it in a brief but courteous shake before leaving the car behind for the merciful familiarity of home.


	3. Aching Hour

Tony fidgeted in his lab, feeling the missing pieces in his plan, the missing parts inside his chest, and all of it felt like something that needed to be fixed this moment. Waiting was a feeling he despised. He felt as if he would crawl out of his own skin with the impatience that screamed through him. Instead, Tony focused on the hum of the prototype inside him and closed his eyes. An ever-beating heart pumped his blood. It was his own creation. He was his own monster.

The prototype itself was not a monster, it was a marvel. He had managed what no other person, company, nor conglomerate had managed. He created something new, something better, than GeneCo had ever imagined. There had been attempts before, of course. Others struck out to achieve what GeneCo had, but it was dangerous work. It was playing God. Tony was living proof that his invention worked. Apart from a faint blue glow emanating from Tony’s chest, there was no sign that he was anything but entirely healthy and whole.

“Good morning,” Pepper said, stepping into Tony’s lab as if it was home. It may as well have been, for as much time as she spent there. The sound of her shoes clacking along the hard floor brought a feeling of normalcy and peace to Tony.

“Morning,” Tony said. He ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. “What’s your read on the situation?”

Pepper sat down next to Tony. She was quiet for a moment. The press of her lips into a thin line as she thought was the giveaway that there was much on her mind.

“My take is that things are moving faster than you expected, but you can handle it. You’re not sleeping, which is normal, but not healthy. The new guy is already working with the schematics you gave him, which is encouraging. The intern idolizes you, which is also probably not healthy, but he’s a good kid. I have not been back to my apartment in four days, which means that my plants are certainly not healthy. But according to your last EKG, your heart is very healthy. That’s the important thing right now.”

Pepper said all of this very quickly, but with a softness to her voice that Tony only heard when she was alone with him. She did not allow the world to see her the way Tony saw her: with her hair down, holding a mug of coffee, and tilting her head just so. He leaned closer to her and matched the tilt of her head. How had he never before noticed the flecks of color in her eyes?

* * *

 

Steve’s whole body was sore the next morning when he awoke and stumbled into the kitchen to fill a glass with water and mix up his medicine. His doses were off by several hours and he had felt more stress, anxiety, fear, exhaustion, and a sensation that he would not admit was _fun_ than he felt in years. His adventure from the night before took a toll on his body, yes, but it left him with a feeling that he was already chasing after again.

From the kitchen, he could see Bucky asleep on the couch. They had not talked to each other after Steve’s deliverance by Bucky’s employer the night before. It was a rough night, the worst that that Steve could remember. He could handle just about anything that Bucky could throw at him, and Steve could certainly give it right back as good as he got it when a fight broke out, but silence was deadly.

As if Steve’s stare was a touch upon his shoulder, Bucky awoke and rose from his place on the couch. He met eyes with Steve and held the gaze. The emotion in them was something foreign. It was not anger, as Steve expected.

“I thought you were in trouble,” Steve said, finally.

“I was at work.”

Steve looked down, feeling the weight of his overreaction. How great a mess had he made of things to go running off into the world simply because Bucky had been at work? He grabbed a cloth and wiped down the counter, despite it being clean already.

“Where did you go?” Bucky asked.

“I thought you might have been at the graveyard,” Steve said and shrugged. He kept looking down.

“The graveyard? Why?” Bucky asked. There was real surprise in his voice that made Steve stop cleaning and look up. Bucky was shaken and pale. Steve recognized the look in his eyes that had been hard for him to categorize until that moment: it was panic. 

“I thought you might have gone to see your folks. You mentioned a few times that they are buried out there.” Steve was suddenly fascinated by the scratched surface of the hardwood floor and couldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes for all the world.

“Steve, listen. It’s dangerous, it’s so stupid to go wandering around graveyards in the middle of the night. You could have been thrown in jail. You could have been killed—“

“I know that. I was safe.”  Steve shrugged off the hand that Bucky laid on his arm. It was hot and just a little damp with sweat. He returned to the glass of medicine that he fixed earlier and finally drank it down. It tasted like it looked, if glowing and blue had a taste. “Well,” Steve said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth when he set his glass down, “I’m safe now. Does that count for something?”

“That counts for a lot.” Bucky said.

Without warning, the room went foggy around Steve and the ground gave a great lurch under his feet. Steve felt Bucky’s arms under his own to steady him. He closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning, but that only made the feeling intensify.

“You okay there, Steve?” Bucky asked.

“It’s fine.” Steve said. “I just took my medicine at the wrong time. Off schedule, you know. Feeling kind of dizzy. Move me to the couch?”

Steve hobbled toward the couch like a drunk man. He stumbled over himself and knocked his shin hard against the coffee table. He swore, and felt the beginning of what would be a nasty bruise, but it was better to retain what remained of his dignity than to allow Bucky to carry him. Bucky had the strength, and Steve was certainly light enough, but neither of them could withstand the embarrassment that either of them felt just imagining it. Steve would gladly suffer the bruise to save them both such a fate.

“There you go, Stevie.” Bucky said, looking down at him once Steve was settled on the couch with his legs on a stack of cushions.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, “Remember to drop the rent by on your way to work this evening, okay? We still got two days to pay it, but better early than late. Also, you promised to help Mrs. Whatshername downstairs with her new vertebrae. Those things are hard to adjust.”

“Oh shit! Thanks Steve. I was going to forget about it.” Bucky said, catching a piece of toast as it flew out of the toaster.

“I know you were. That’s why I told you,” Steve said, feeling self-satisfied.

“You have enough brains for the both of us,” Bucky said. He sounded fond, but by the time Steve glanced over to the kitchen he had already turned away.

“Yep. Too bad they can’t scoop some of mine out and give ‘em to you.”

* * *

 

When Bucky left for work that night, there was an itch inside of Steve that he never felt before. Bucky had the night shift again. For as smart as Bucky said Steve was, there was an impossibly stupid impulse that made him want very unintelligent things. Steve did not talk about this.

He stood from his chair by the window and closed his eyes. The sounds of the city awoke a restlessness in Steve that propelled him into action. He grabbed Bucky’s jacket again, from the foot of his bed where he shucked it off the previous night in his haze, and threw it over his shoulders. He was going to the graveyard again and this time he would not make a fool of himself.

He put two vials of his medicine into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressed against his breast where they would be safe. He would not miss his dose this time. He would get home before Bucky. Nobody had to know he was ever gone. He nodded to himself and put the untouched, spare key into his boot. He locked the door on his way out and felt reassured that this time he did things right.

* * *

 

The Warehouse was in a settled and calm state, well, as calm as ever. Sam woke late in the afternoon in his bunk deep in the back or the building, where the light was softest, muted by a few dirty windows and the warm yellow glow of grime. Forty residents, give or take, all boxed into tight quarters among their fellow delinquents. Nobody asked questions and nobody raised eyebrows at the goings on in their city inside a city.

Sam found the washrooms at their busiest. The showers overflowed with people, rather than water. He waited for his turn and listened. The basic human need for water brought out something vulnerable in people, even in people who lived at the Warehouse. This was where he picked up some of his most valuable information. It was what he imagined reading the newspaper was like, for those who could afford such luxuries as newspapers printed the day of.

“It’s been a week,” a man said with an expression Sam knew too well. “I think they forgot about me. I haven’t heard a word from them. No collectors, no calls, no letters. I think I’m safe.”

No need to ask who the man meant by “they” and “them.” The man was speaking to a woman who had been at the warehouse for years. She was there when Sam arrived, and she would be there long after he left or died. She was an eternal factor as far as anyone there was concerned. She listened to this man in all his desperation, gave him his moment of peace, and accepted that he would not last the month. Some people were not meant for this world. Nobody was meant for this world.

“Hey Clare.” Sam said, walking past on his way to a free space and a trickle of clean water. He splashed his face first and closed his eyes, feeling the mercy of the cold against his hot skin.

“Hey Sam.” She said.

Washing her feet in a basin next to him was another woman he saw around from time to time. “You back, Jones?”

“Hell no,” Jones said, spitting a wad of toothpaste down the drain. She gave him a crooked smile that came nowhere near her eyes, “Crashed for the night.”

“You know if anybody’s got a claim on your bed yet?” Sam asked, feeling like he was asking to get punched in the jaw just for asking the question. Instead, Jones’s smile widened and Clair came over to join them.

“No, not yet,” Jones said.

“You have somebody in mind? You know the rules haven’t changed.” Clair said, this time with an authoritative tone that made Sam address his words to her.

“I know. I’m not trying to get into the third floor. Just trying to help a friend out. She showed up yesterday—“ He lowered his voice so that only the two women could hear him, “—survived a repo, I don’t know how.”

“Jesus—“ Clair said, rolling her eyes.

“Fuck—“ Jones said, at the same time.

“I know.” Sam said, holding back an apology.

“Where?” Clair asked.

“Lower abdomen” Sam said. Clair nodded wordlessly and scratched her nose, lips pressed together in thought.

“Okay, we can work with that. Bring her here later if you can. She can have Jones’s bed.” 

* * *

 

Steve crept through the graveyard, feeling his pulse in his throat. There was nobody in the old section where Bucky’s family was buried, nobody living, anyway. No recent funerals brought out any mourners, and no holidays reminded people of loved ones, so he was alone to wander through the cracked ancient stones. He turned down a nearby street toward the glow of a streetlight and saw a familiar profile.

“Graverobber!”

“Shh!”

“Sorry,” Steve said.

“I haven’t seen your friend,” the graverobber said.

“That’s alright, he found me.”

A silence hung between them, carried by a curious look from the graverobber. It was as if he had a half-formed question he had not decided if he ought to ask in his mind, and then he thought better of it, shifted it away and said, “Well, Steve, if it’s all the same, I’m waiting on someone. So” he made a gesture with his hand.

“Oh” Steve said, unsure what to do now that he had been dismissed.

“That’s rude” said a voice from the mouth of the alley in shadow just to their right, making them both jump.

“Who is it?” Steve said, as if that would make a shred of difference to him.

A woman emerged from the alley. The way she leaned against the brick wall, with her hair in her eyes and weight all on one hip could have been mistaken for easygoing nonchalance, but there was a wince of pain in her movements.

“Don’t send him away on my account,” the woman said. The Graverobber laughed and shook his head.

“Alright, kid. You can come with us, but proceed at your own risk,” said the Graverobber. 


	4. Experiment with Something Living

When he set out earlier that evening, Steve had few expectations of how the night would take form. Supporting half the weight of a staggering woman as they slouched toward a structure that was in a state of wreckage nearly as bad as her, however, was not among them. He looked up at Sam for guidance and was met only with a nod of encouragement that he took to mean “don’t drop her.” So they continued on together up to the door, which loomed heavy and metal above them.

Sam gave a long, rhythmic series of knocks. Somebody whistled from behind a screen. He whistled back. The door slid open and they were ushered inside, where Steve felt as if he had entered a building that was completely different from the one he was looking at from the street. Inside, there was a bustling cacophony of life moving all over. It felt like an apartment building, if apartment buildings had no walls or windows. It was claustrophobic, and all at once, offered the kind of privacy of walking down a crowded street. Nobody spared them a passing glance.

“Sam!” A voice met them, followed by its owner. A woman who radiated control parted the crowd and walked with them. “This is the girl,” she said, “but who is this?” She nodded at Steve.

“This is Claire. She was expecting us,” Sam told Steve. “The kid is Steve. Wasn’t expecting him tonight.”

“I’m twent—“ Steve started to protest at being called a kid, but he was cut off.

“She’s bleeding. Look,” she rounded on Sam and Steve, “the rules here are hard and fast. Absolutely no men, ever, under any circumstances, on the third floor. Right now, I need you to help me carry her up the stairs. You get her up to the third floor landing and then you get out. Step onto the third floor and you will get shot. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said while Sam nodded his agreement.

By the time they hauled her up two flights of stairs, the woman Steve was helping to carry was getting clammy in his arms.

“Hey!” Snapped Claire so loudly in his ear that Steve nearly dropped the arm that he was struggling to hang onto. “Girl! What’s your name.”

“Come on,” she smiled up at the Claire, her eyes heavy and unfocused. Steve was surprised to see that she was still conscious. “You wouldn’t have given me shelter if you didn’t know it already.” She backed down at the cold glare she received from Claire. “It’s Nat. Natasha, if you’re nasty.”

“Did you already know it?” Steve asked, as they continued up the last couple of steps.

“I wanted to make sure she did.” Claire said. “Okay, boys,” her tone changed to one of business, “this is your stop.”

“Claire,” Sam said. There was something urgent in his tone.

“I can’t make exceptions, Sam.”

“I was a surgeon. I’m not a hack-and-slash repo man. I know how to help.”

“You want to help?” Claire extended her hand and looked expectantly at Sam. He withdrew a vial from his bag and gave it to her. Steve noticed with a shock like stepping through ice that he recognized the contents of the vials. They contained an unmistakable glowing blue liquid. The pocket of his own jacket felt heavier, as if just by thinking of it, his own medicine gained weight.

“I’ll be downstairs. You let me know if Cho needs me.” Sam said.

“She won’t.” Claire shook her head and her expression was kind but firm. “Stay put and we’ll let you know how Nat does.”

* * *

 

Bucky used to love his work. He used to adore this feeling of doing something rewarding for the right reasons: solving mysteries, returning stolen property. It felt like something that could keep him endlessly entertained. These days, it seemed like a never-ending loop of the same day over and over.

He arrived at the hospital and found the stack of papers on his desk. The loans, the repossession forms, the change of address forms, letters from associates, blah, blah, and blah. He signed what needed to be signed, grabbed the photograph of his patient, and then went to work.

Tracking them down was he part he liked best. He put himself in their mind. He thought of what he knew from their purchase history, browsing history, abandoned home, and followed like a hound with a scent. This patient’s tracks led him to the night market. It was an endless world of chaos and canopies where anyone could get lost and anything could be found.

“Afternoon,” Bucky said, strolling past a booth that sold plums as dark as the sky overhead.

“It’s night” The man said. He eyes Bucky with caution, sensing something like danger in his easy smile.

“It’s early still,” Bucky said. His patient sprang into a run like a gazelle catching the scent of a lion. He knew he was prey. Bucky pursued him between tents and into an alley.

“I’ll pay.”

“Ninety seven days overdue. That’s a week past your repo date. You’re on borrowed time already.”

“I’ll do anything.”

Patients begging was the part he liked least.

“It won’t work,” Bucky said.

The work itself, he was neutral about. From a removed, objective perspective, there was something satisfying about the sensations, he couldn't deny that. Bucky was not like many of his coworkers, however. He did not relish watching the light fade from his patients. He was not there to cause suffering, he was there to do a job. He was there to retrieve stolen property. He was there to solve mysteries. Ultimately, he was there to help Steve. That was all.

He left the patient where he found him, with one less part. 

* * *

 

“Mr. Stark, I noticed some inconsistencies in the report from—oh, god, nevermind.” Peter entered his boss’s office without knocking and immediately regretted his decision. He never did that. He had the utmost respect for his boss. He had been so wrapped up in the work that he forgot himself and ascended the steps with his head still buried in his research. He only looked up half-way through his sentence, when it was too late, and he was eye to eye with his superiors—yes, two of them—passionately embracing one another without a hint of professionalism.

Eyes locked on the lab floor, he heard the unmistakeable, wet, smacking sound of lips pulling apart from a deep kiss and waited a moment before looking up. Ms. Potts was smoothing her hair back and Mr. Stark adjusted his collar with a kind of pleased lack of concern that few people could pull off with the kind of charm that he managed.

“I can leave.” Peter said, motioning to the exit, which was calling to him like a sweet beacon of freedom.

“I know you can, but you don’t have to,” Mr. Stark said, “just don’t report me for workplace misconduct. Alright, tell me about the inconsistencies, what did you find?”

“The findings on our cold specimen have been good, but all of our research has been on repo victims. For this to work, we need somebody who has never had an artificial organ. We aren’t going to find that in a living volunteer.”

“Where are we going to find a living person who doesn't have any GeneCo organs, who will sign up for experimental testing just for kicks? We can’t offer them much. The funding for this project is almost tapped.” Mrs. Potts asked, looking between them. “Do we know anyone who would do this?”

“Pep, I don’t think anybody is stupid enough to do this,” Mr. Stark said.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Banner followed Peter up the stairs and had been waiting just behind him, his interjection made Peter feel as if he had jumped out of his skin. “I think I know somebody who could help.”

* * *

  
“Where?” Natasha felt her head swim in and out of focus, eyes blurry, the rest of her in something like a dream. The sounds around her were far away. She felt like she was floating, drifting across a barrier between the present and somewhere else, somewhere soft and pleasant. “Where am I?” She asked, when it felt possible to string the words together.

“Alive, for one,” a voice somewhere above her. It sounded gentle, even if the world it welcomed her back to was not a gentle place.

“Oh,” Natasha said, accepting, perhaps disappointed.

“You’re safer now,” a different voice said, the scraping of wood against wood, and a cool hand against her own. She turned to see a face she remembered from earlier, maybe hours since she collapsed.

“Claire? Where’s the Graverobber?” Natasha asked.   
“Robbing graves, probably. You’ve been out for about a day. Dr. Cho stopped the bleeding and we got you on enough Zydrate to take care of your pain. You should be feeling pretty good, yeah?”

Natasha nodded and felt her head swoop with the comfortable sensation that the Zydrate provided.

“I want you to know that there are strict rules here. We never let men onto this floor of the Warehouse. We keep the front door locked and have rules about who comes in. I will explain more later, but for now, I want you to recover knowing that you are safer while you are here,” Claire said.

“Sounds like a nice place.” Natasha heard the way Claire danced around telling her she was safe. She was safer, not safe. It was good of her, not tell boldfaced lies to injured girls. Natasha did have to wonder how the warehouse benefited from housing her, however. Everything had a price.

“There’s somebody who wants to talk to you. That okay?”

Natasha felt her chest constrict with panic for a moment, the remnants of the attack, the fight, her injury, and everything that had come since. She closed her eyes and took a breathe through her nose where the metallic scent of her own blood filled her senses. She was still alive.

“Yes, that’s fine,” She said.

Another woman joined them at her bedside. Her dark hair framed her sweetheart face. Natasha did not know her.

“Who are you?” Natasha asked.

“Betty. A colleague asked me to speak to you. It took a lot to track you down.”

“How did you find… wait. Betty Ross? Bruce sent you?”

“Yes. He needs your help.”

As full of Zydrate as she was, Natasha couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “Of course he does. You going to let him know I’m bleeding out in a building full of deviants.”

“No, because you’re going to get better. In the meantime, let me tell you what’s going on.”

* * *

  
Steve made it home before Bucky and shoved his jacket, which had once been Bucky’s, under his bed. It would need to be washed. The last thing he needed was for Bucky to see him with blood all over his clothes. He sat by the window and watched Bucky’s unmistakable form make its way up the sidewalk and the steps into the building.

What was Steve doing? He had never hidden a secret this big from his best friend. They had no secrets from each other. Well, Steve thought, there was an elephant in the room—a silent weight between them that descended when they drank too much and the mood became dense with unspoken things they could not put a name to. This was different. This was about an experience, not an feeling.

Steve squared his shoulders when the door squeaked open, announcing his arrival. Perhaps it was the memory of Natasha’s injury so sharp in his mind, but the scent of blood filled his nose again. He felt sick with it. It drove him from his chair and straight into Bucky’s arms the moment the door was closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this chapter. There was a death in the family, so my writing has been bogged down.   
> As always, you are wonderful. Much love to all my readers.


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